Here’s the block of pavement where I found your name and the jail cell where I did my time.

In the city outside my window, there’s a bar & grill where I beat you at pool and you sang us your song.

There’s a pub where we drank too much and you left me bruised and bleeding and headed home.

There’s a park where I lay with you, listened to Chicago blues. There’s a mark in the grass where I fell back in love with you.

Over there’s the club where we danced all night while the DJ mixed Michael Jackson on the day he died, and down the street’s the place where I saw the way you looked at me when we danced to reggae & the blues.

There’s a beach and a boardwalk where we walked late through the night and courted each other with jokes and jabs.

Up there’s the tram where we shared a kiss over the ocean, and down below’s where you won my seal of approval. Around the corner’s the comedy and piano bar where I felt you pull away, right next to the strip club where other men vied for your heart.

This is the archway I walked through to learn esoteric things, and across the street the coffeeshop where I saw you one last time. Here’s the corner where I told you I wanted to kiss you.

Below this street’s the subway stop where I let you go.

In that building is the couch where we finally had that kiss, the one we waited fourteen years to share.

That’s the laundromat you and I and another friend terrorized while trying to make a movie.

There’s an airport where you came to me, and the airport where we met our end. This is the way you came into my life over and over, and this is the way you left me, every time.

There’s a diner where we drank chicory coffee and ate beignets and decided we were better as friends, and here’s the lake we walked around, talked about Kant and Hegel and the world as only young philosophers see.

Here’s the church where they got married and we conjured up engaging ways. Here’s another church — where you caught my eye, smirking with your indie kitten on your head.

Here’s the palm tree where I buried my kitty, and here’s the broken-down car I called home for a while.

There’s a girl in a wonder woman suit trying to stay out of sight, calling out to me. There are musicians scenting the air with their songs and workers planting flowers for the season.

Here’s the block of pavement where I found your name and the jail cell where I did my time.

Here’s the roof where I sat as a young man and confessed to the grand willow tree all my pains and all my hopes.

And here, here’s the door I call home.

Outside my window there’s a world, a city of my own memory, and you – and you – and you & you – live here, in a city ever-growing, a city built of everywhere we’ve been. This is the city outside my window.